Convicted - Romig Aleatha. Страница 11

Only those you trust can betray you.

—Nathan Rahl

“Mr. Simmons, we believe it’s in the best interest of your client to keep him here for at least forty-eight hours.”

Brent tried to clarify an earlier statement, “You’re saying you believe Mr. Rawlings is in danger? Yet you won’t tell us what threats or evidence you have to support this claim.”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.” Hearing the mechanisms of the door, everyone turned to see another agent enter. Agent Jackson introduced the newest member of their conversation, “This is Special Agent in Charge, Easton.”

SAC Easton stepped toward the table. Tony searched his expression; deep lines embedded in his forehead displaying years of concentration and stress. Though Tony looked for some sign of accommodation, Easton’s grimace, instead, warned of impending doom.

Clearing his throat, Easton began, “Agent Jackson, thank you for your diligence. Mr. Rawlings, it’s come to our attention that you’re to be released.” He straightened his stance, and added, “At this time we’re not prepared to formally charge you with any crimes.”

Tony exhaled. His gratitude quickly evaporated as irritation prevailed. Incredulously, he stood and glared at the federal officials. Before he could speak, SAC Easton continued, “Nevertheless, your safety is a concern and we want to again—”

Tony interrupted, “My safety? What about Claire? What about her safety?”

“Sir”—Easton shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot—“Your ex-wife is the informant who alerted us to this danger.”

Tony’s lungs deflated as he turned his gaze toward Brent. Sinking back into the chair, he whispered, “She’s alive. Thank God, she’s alive.” As quickly as the oxygen left, it returned, with a rush of blood to his cheeks making his face a bright shade of crimson in the poorly lit room. With each word, his volume increased and his stance straightened, “She’s alive. My fiancee, the mother of my child, is alive and you’ve had me here for hours playing some sick mind games!”

Brent silenced Tony with a touch of Tony’s sleeve. “Special Agent Easton, Agent Jackson, I believe you just said my client is free to go?”

“Yes, counselor; however, it is the recommendation of the—”

Brent continued, “Thank you, we’ll be spending the night here in Boston. You have my number. If we don’t hear from you by tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM, we plan to return to Iowa. If you need to speak with my client again, you may do so, through me.”

There was so much Tony wanted to say, so much he wanted to know, yet Brent’s slight pressure on his arm told him to leave the room—escape now before the FBI changed its mind. Momentarily, Tony’s body refused to move. What else did these men know? Trying with all his might, he swallowed his words and walked toward the door; nevertheless, before he reached the point of exodus, he turned back around. “Where is she? Is she in danger?”

SAC Easton met his eyes. “Mr. Rawlings, she’s the one who made contact with authorities. It’s our understanding that she left the country—your home—of her own free will.”

“Country? Did you say she left the country? Where is she?”

“Of—Her—Own—Free—Will, Mr. Rawlings. She doesn’t wish her whereabouts to be disclosed. The danger she’s alerting you to is still present.”

The agent’s words reverberated through Tony’s thoughts—Out of the county—own free will. Did Claire leave him? Did she leave in a way to purposely create a public scandal? Had she been playing him—some kind of sick revenge—was it all a charade to get back at him? No! Tony knew that wasn’t the case. He refused to spend another second entertaining that notion.

Brent’s tug brought Tony back to present, as his counsel addressed the assembly, “Thank you agents, we’ll collect Mr. Rawlings’ things.”

Tony glared one last time, momentarily speechless.

At a front desk, Tony signed for his belongings, which included his brief case and cell phone. He could almost taste the blood as he bit his lip, holding back the words he couldn’t bear to think much less say. When they stepped from the building, the fresh air filled his lungs as the late hour registered. The FBI had come to Tony’s hotel room almost twelve hours earlier. Turning on his phone, he managed, “I’ll call Eric and get us to a hotel.”

Brent shook his head. “No, I sent Eric back to Iowa. I didn’t know how long this would last. I’ll call for a taxi.”

Tony nodded as he saw the number of messages and missed calls mount on his screen. He tried to remember a time when he’d been unwillingly inaccessible to the world for twelve hours. While it was incomprehensible to think the FBI had removed him from his life, with total disregard for his personal or public obligations, he couldn’t shake the agent’s words. Of her own free will.

During the taxi ride to the hotel, neither man uttered more than a word or two as they both busily returned emails and text messages. The emotion of the day was finally gone—swallowed back into an unyielding hole. Unconsciously, Tony contemplated the possibility he’d been played. Of her own free will? The hairs prickled on the back of his neck.

It wasn’t until they were checked into a two bedroom suite that they began talking. “I don’t believe them.” Conviction came through Tony’s voice stronger with each word.

“You don’t believe the FBI?”

“If Claire left willingly, she was coerced.”

“Why would the FBI insinuate otherwise?”

“Why would they keep me for the entire damn day and then drop that bomb at the end?”

Brent shrugged, so many thoughts bombarding his head.

The strength and concern in Tony’s voice morphed into his familiar dominating tone. “I don’t want you to tell Courtney about what you learned today.”

Brent considered his words. Was this the time to tell Tony he’d known for years? He straightened his neck and stood taller than he had in his friend’s presence in many years. “I told you, I helped you because of Claire. She’s alive and safe. That’s what matters.”

“Apparently she is, and apparently we aren’t privy to know anything more.”

“No, we aren’t, but at least we know she isn’t in prison on trumped up charges.”

Tony spun and met Brent’s gaze. “What did you just say?”

“I said—we don’t know where she is”—Brent continued his stare—“We know where she isn’t.”

“I’m going to assume that offer to fire you is still on the table.”

Scanning the mini bar, Brent chose a bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the small lid and drank from the spout. Shaking his head, he laughed. “Sure, why not? I’m considering an early retirement anyway.”

Even with his back toward Tony, Brent could sense the darkening of Tony’s eyes and imagine his expression as Tony repeated, “Don’t say anything to Courtney.”

Brent turned back around. He was done being bullied. “Tony, I’m not promising that. I don’t keep secrets from my wife.”

“This isn’t debatable.” Tony grabbed a similar bottle from the bar. As he unscrewed the lid, Brent saw his shoulders slump. His tone was no longer full of domination; Brent heard something new as Tony said, “I care what Courtney thinks”—he kept his gaze away, as if looking out the large window and the lights of Boston—“And you.”

Brent reeled. All the accusations and declarations he’d practiced in his head were suddenly gone. Brotherly love wasn’t a comfortable gesture between the two of them. Clearing his throat, Brent managed, “You and Claire made it through this. Do you swear you never treated her like her testimony states, since her release from prison?”

Tony nodded. “I swear.”